Comfort Food
by A Deed Without a Name
Summary: Sam has always taken for granted just how much Dean loves him. After being cursed to involuntarily feed off emotions, though, he's going to come to appreciate every single one of Dean's feelings for him. WARNING: Contains stuffing, feeding, cursed!motivore!Sam, unwilling forcefeeding and gluttony, and Wincest


_You cause strife wherever you go._

Swallowing a leftover gag, Sam staggered out of the bathroom, one hand clenching at the slowly-fading agony in his stomach and the other on the wall for support. His mouth tasted like he'd been licking the inside of a toilet bowl, and chasing that up with a pound of ghost peppers. He hadn't even known your teeth could burn.

_All hunters are the same and you especially...anguish follows you._

Reaching the closest bed, which happened to be his, Sam let his legs give out, dumping himself onto it. The Nixon-era springs complained. He pulled his cell out of his pocket with weak fingers, checking it. Still dead, just like it'd been at the witch's house after she'd gotten away, and all the way back to the motel. Magic did have a tendency to fry electronics.

_All that pain and suffering and ruin._

Stretching himself across the mattress, Sam grabbed the phone on the bedside table. He punched in Dean's main number, long since memorized, and held the handset to his ear. Instead of ringing, he got an automated voice reminding him he needed to dial the extension for an outside line. Groaning, he hung up, then stabbed out the extended number.

_Why don't you _choke _on it?_

It didn't take long, at least, for Dean to pick up. "Who's this?"

"Dean, it's me." Sam rubbed at his face.

"Oh, hey, how's it going?" It sounded like Dean was at a bar. Considering he'd gotten "interviewing locals" when they flipped a coin, that made sense. "You find anything out at the Larsyn house?"

"Uh, yeah...who told you they were on vacation, again?" Sam was starting to feel a tiny bit better, holed up in here.

"Kids' teacher." Dean paused, and there was something on Sam's tongue all of a sudden, sweet and rich and mercifully cool. The closest thing he could compare it to, as it filled his mouth and ran down his throat, was gelato. Even that wasn't exact. "You okay? You don't sound too good, man."

"I'm really not," Sam admitted.

The flavor got stronger and sharpened. "What happened?"

"The husband and the kids were gone when I broke in, but the wife wasn't. She found me going through her stuff, and...well." Sam half-smirked. "I can tell you for sure that she's our witch, at least."

"What happened?" Dean repeated. An edge of clean capsaicin heat surfaced in the gelato flavor, much to the dismay of Sam's abused stomach. "What'd she do to you?"

"Gave me a long speech, first of all. Y'know, like they always do." While holding him immobile against the wall with a raised finger. "And...then she cursed me."

_"Shit."_ The bar noise was getting quieter, like Dean was heading out. "Any idea what it does yet?"

"Yeah, and it's super weird." He thought about shuddering on the clean hardwood floor, unable to stop the witch from packing a bag and leaving at a leisurely pace, as he vomited up a seemingly-endless stream of vile black sludge. Because she hated him. All his kind, but him especially right now, for tracking her down and forcing her out. "I'm pretty sure she made it so that I'm...eating feelings."

A pause, accompanied by a bland, mild cardboard taste. "You mean in, like, a 'bullied in high school' kinda way?"

"No, I mean _literally _feeding off emotions. Ones that're directed at me, specifically." He'd figured that out pretty quick. The analytical part of him wondered what he was tasting from Dean, even though it hardly mattered at the moment. Anger was spicy, he knew that. It got acid-toxic if it was strong enough. The cardboard flavor might be confusion, given the context. The gelato taste, he imagined, was probably concern. "The witch...what she was feeling about me made me so sick I couldn't do anything to keep her from getting away."

"...seriously?" Sam had to pull the handset away from his face as he gagged at something flat and stale. Skepticism might be worse than anger.

"It's way worse than it sounds," Sam said weakly when he returned. "Trust me. And I think I'm - _magnifying _emotions, too. Remember how I pissed off the guy at the front desk when we checked in?"

"Yeah, he wasn't real grateful to you for handing his crappy toupee back to him, was he?" Not like it'd been Sam's fault the wind blew it off his head when they opened the door.

"Well, when I got back here, he totally freaked out. Practically frothing at the mouth. He chased me all the way to the room." It'd also given Sam the worst heartburn he'd ever had in his life, a stomach full of needles and a foul, hot taste on the back of his tongue. He'd barely made it to the toilet before he was puking again. "It was like he couldn't control himself."

"He hurt you?" More pepper-burning. _Ugh._

"No. Guy's in his sixties, I outran him."

"So you're back at the motel, then." The skepticism and anger were gone, thankfully, and the lovely concern was back. When Sam confirmed, he heard the jingle of keys in the background. "All right, I'm on my way. We're gonna figure this out. 'Til I get there, make sure the door's locked and sit tight, okay?" There was a quick flare of something like intense salt and vinegar. Humor? "And try not to get on anybody else's bad side. Can't imagine that'd taste too good."

"Yeah, I'd kinda gotten that, Dean," Sam replied dryly.

After he hung up, he laid on the bed for a second longer, but he'd mostly recovered from what the clerk's rage had done to him. He climbed slowly to his feet and went back into the bathroom, where he splashed cold water on his face and gave his teeth and tongue a thorough brushing. The toothpaste had no flavor for him, but at least it got rid of what had been there.

He was hungry. Starving, actually. His blood sugar was so low he was trembling and couldn't focus, which hadn't happened to him since he'd been going through growth spurts. He imagined he could feel his empty stomach lying flat against his spine. What he'd gotten from Dean barely took the edge off.

Sam walked on wobbly legs over to the room's small table, pulled a chair out, and dropped into it with a sigh. He'd had a good breakfast (toast and oatmeal), but probably barfed it up along with all the witch's caustic resentment.

At least Dean didn't keep him waiting all that long. He hurried into the room, bringing more concern with him before he even put the key in the lock. It made Sam realize that what he'd been getting through the phone was a pale and distant imitation of the real thing. Maybe why it hadn't satisfied him at all. This was genuine and mouthwatering, and he felt like he was gulping it down in huge, creamy swoops, and he hoped he wasn't hurting Dean by doing that. There didn't seem to be any way to turn off the feeding, though. He'd already tried.

"Oh, crap," Dean blurted when he saw Sam, worry growing. "You look like hell, dude."

"Thanks," Sam deadpanned.

"Okay, let's, uh..." Dean took the other chair at the room's table. "Gonna be honest, what I really wanna do is find that witch bitch and break both her knees, but I'm guessing she's long gone by now." Sam nodded bleakly, wincing when the anger resurfaced. "Yeah. So let's work this out."

They rehashed it all, what Sam had found in the house, what the witch had said to him, the hand motions she'd done while laying the curse. Dean checked Sam and his gear for hex bags, just in case (he was clean). They brainstormed about exactly what kind of spell this was and how they were gonna go at breaking it. It was the sort of thing Sam might've enjoyed, ordinarily, but he was so hungry he was having a tough time staying focused and not getting mad at stupid stuff.

Dean calmed down as they talked, apparently realizing Sam wasn't actually hurt or about to drop dead, and the concern slowly rolled itself back. Something else, something, honestly, much better, crept up to take its place.

It was much more solid and filling, and there was a wide rainbow of flavors to it. Textures, too, even though Sam wasn't sure how that was possible with something that wasn't physically in his mouth. It was like the best sandwich Sam had ever had, or the best salad. Just the best food out of any in general. It was delicious and constant.

And much to his relief, it was taking care of his debilitating hunger. The shaking and the fuzziness stopped, as the discussion wore on, and soon enough, Sam was feeling pleasantly sated rather than cored out. For a while, he just sort of basked in the excellent taste and the feeling of fullness. Maybe he deserved it after the day he'd had so far. Then, though, burping, Sam realized his jeans were getting painfully tight around his waist.

He looked down at his stomach to see, much to his shock, a noticeable hump under his flannel button down. When had he last been this full? He couldn't remember. Hell, he couldn't even remember the last time his belly had stuck out further than his pecs. When he was twelve?

The more urgent issue right now, of course, was the uncomfortable pressure. Troubled by the fact this'd even happened, Sam undid his belt, then his fly. That brought immediate relief and his stomach surged right forward into his hands. Sam burped, quietly, as he looked down at the curve. It was slightly bigger than it'd been with his pants holding it back.

And...that wasn't all, Sam realized as horror spiked in him.

He was still feeding off Dean's feelings. He was getting even fuller. He could feel it, ephemeral substance flowing into his belly, and he could see it, too. His stomach was swelling in small, steady increments, growing even as he watched.

Panicked, Sam looked up at Dean. His older brother had his back to him, out of his chair and standing at the table, where their father's journal was laid out. He was looking for anything on curses or breaking them. Sam couldn't remember ever seeing anything like that in the dozen times he'd been through it himself, but it'd seemed like a good idea to have Dean look, too.

"Dean," he blurted. "W-we got a problem."

Dean turned around immediately. His shock sparked and staticked in Sam's mouth, leaving numb patches on his tongue.

"What the _hell_?" It took him less than a second to put two and two together, and he looked at Sam with wide eyes. "Is that...shit, did I do that?"

"Yep." Sam winced, then belched, unable to stifle it. "You're...feeling all kindsa things."

There was a silent second, then Dean tentatively asked, "Good or bad?"

"Good, for the most part, but..." Sam bit back a moan as the pressure increased even further. He wore his shirts loose, but they were growing tight, too. "Th-there's too much of it. Obviously." As he burped yet again, Sam was disturbed by how little it hurt. There was some pain, of course, as he approached the limits of what should be physically possible, but mostly, it felt...kinda nice. It made no sense.

"Well - " Dean threw his hands up, and Sam discovered exasperation was sharp, thin, and bitter. "What exactly d'you want me to do, Sam?"

"I don't know!" Sam exclaimed, thoughts running too frenzied and wild for him to think of a real solution. God, what if he actually, literally burst? Would Dean be able to get him to a hospital before he bled out? Where was the closest one and why didn't they immediately figure that out every time they rolled into a new town? _"Stop!"_

There was silence from Dean, who looked (and tasted) frustrated and freaked out. And then there was a sudden burst of that really filling stuff from him, an explosion heavy as tres leches cake, and Sam's stomach popped astonishingly outwards with a loud _blorp_. The new size and weight had Sam slouching in his cheap, flimsy chair, which had begun to creak alarmingly. He belched, appalled, then moaned again, panting as he stared at Dean with outright shock.

"Are you - " A burp interrupted Sam. " - freaking kidding me right now?"

"I can't help it!" Dean shot back. "It's like trying not to think about pink elephants." He looked at Sam accusingly. "And 'sides, ain't this partially your fault? Since you're blowing up feelings right now?"

It was a good thing Sam couldn't taste his own emotions, because the irritation and anger would probably make him sick for the third time that day. As for Dean, his mood didn't match his words. Good stuff was still flowing generously from him. Sam's stomach was still expanding, too, though at least it was going slow again. He gasped at the touch of hot, tight flesh against his denim-covered thighs.

And it all tasted so fantastic. Sam was scared because he wasn't sure he'd want to stop even if he could.

"You gotta get outta here," Sam told Dean. So many burps, all forced out of him before he even had the chance to try and do something about them.

"I'm not leaving you like this," Dean stated as he shook his head, which was more or less the answer Sam had expected.

"Then you're gonna have to - " This time, he actually managed to clap a hand to his mouth before he belched. The other was on his sore-but-not-like-it-should-be belly, rubbing through his flannel and the T-shirt underneath. There was still so much give to it, despite the size, and whatever was inside it was fluid and malleable, which raised a lot of questions. " - stop _loving_ me."

Because of course that was what the delicious, hearty emotion was, the one bowing Sam's middle out, the reason he was still growing. What else could it be, so steady and strong?

Under almost any other circumstances, it would've had Sam thinking all kinds of things and feeling even more, knowing exactly how wide and deep Dean's love for him ran. A part of him was almost glad he only had to think of it as a problem right now, rather than confronting everything else. He wished they were on the outs at the moment, like they seemed to be so often lately, but...did Dean really stop loving him just because he was pissed?

There was something pinched in Dean's face, like he wasn't thrilled about having what he was feeling called by its name, or being told to shut it down. Or both. He just stood there by the table, eyeing Sam, and then, with no warning, another love-bomb hit him.

It was like an entire cheesecake suddenly appeared in Sam's stomach. He half-gasped, half-burped, and it _blorp_ed again, suddenly a fifth or maybe even a quarter larger than it had been. His flannel was really beginning to tighten up, buttons straining and fabric stretching squeakily, olive-drab tee showing through the gaps down the front. But the main thing was that the chair broke. The two front legs gave and dumped Sam right onto the ground.

He was much more startled than hurt, especially with the way his overfilled belly bounced when his ass hit the floor. Dean's reaction was stronger. His panic was like biting into an icicle, shattering cold and brittle behind Sam's teeth. He was over to him in two steps, reaching for him to help him up.

"You okay?" He scanned Sam's face.

"Ye - "

As soon as Dean's hands met his, as soon as their calluses joined and their sweat mixed, something changed. It was like a tectonic plate shifting. Dean's love got instantaneously stronger, almost doubling, and now it was just drenched in something new. Sinfully delicious, it was so syrupy and sweet Sam knew it would've been nothing but empty calories if it was real food. There'd been a hint of it before, he realized, but now it was everywhere. The combination of flavors shouldn't work, but it absolutely did. And of course he couldn't help automatically gorging on all of it.

When Sam looked up at Dean, his eyes had darkened and his pupils had swelled. His full lips were slick, throat working. And there was heat high in his freckled cheeks.

He was...god, he was pretty. And Sam had been excruciatingly aware of that fact for a good decade now, or longer. He slid daily along a spectrum running from ambivalence to rolling his eyes at the women who fell all over themselves around Dean to silently grinding his frustration into a pillow, a mattress, a palm. It hadn't ever overwhelmed him like this, though. Not even when he was drunk.

Dean hauled him up. Even with help, it was hard to get to his feet, and harder to stay there. He was so full and so heavy. There was a painful creaking in his knees as Dean led him over to one of the beds, and he fell onto the mattress on his back. The bed creaked like the chair had, spooking him for a second, but the frame held. Sam closed his eyes, breathing hard. The mattress around him smelled like Dean's aftershave, deodorant, and sweat.

Dean let go of him. Sam's hands fell almost naturally to his gurgling, filling belly, bound tightly by his shirts. They were actually starting to slice into him in bands. Because of course he was still getting bigger, rich, complex love bloating him out. And it felt _good_. That was the worst part, the pleasure outweighing the pain. He was even a little bit hard down in his open jeans. When he rubbed his gut, his cock rose a little higher.

"Shit," Sam whispered right before his buttons burst.

Stitching and fabric ripped, buttons _click_ing one by one off the low ceiling when they hit, stomach ballooning up through the widening gap. Soon, there were only the buttons along his sternum, and one holding on down at the very bottom of his belly so that his flannel framed the shape of it. Inflated gut wobbling, Sam went to undo that last button, but Dean beat him to it. Tore it free, actually. Then he pushed at his tee, which was already rolling itself up, helping it along. Cool air on Sam's searing skin was heavenly. He let his hands drop to his sides, knuckles resting on the comforter.

Dean touched him with steamy-damp hands, and then he rubbed. Sam's ample contents sloshed pleasantly inside him, and ecstasy pounded through him even as he devoured more and more of what Dean was feeling.

Oh, it was so good. It tasted incredible and felt even better. Sam's hands came up above his head, the movement tugging the last inch of T-shirt off his stomach, and he groaned appreciatively. His head fell to the side, nose resting on his bicep.

Something way softer than Dean's fingers met Sam's vulnerable skin a few minutes later, along with breath pillowing over his middle. Sam opened his eyes and lifted his head. The first thing he saw was his own puffy belly, tan and mole-studded and shocking in its size. Then he saw Dean, holding it in place with both hands, eyes closed, face worshipful. Kissing it. That made Sam wonder if the sugary stuff saturating his love wasn't lust, or arousal.

It spiked with every kiss Dean gave him. Sam, of course, guzzled and grew underneath Dean. His head slowly fell back, eyes closing again, a dopey, sated smile covering his face. Not to mention a blush that threaded itself along the line of his cheekbones. He was fully hard now, he could feel. And his stomach was pressing on his lungs. He panted.

Sam was only aware of the terrible situation in the dimmest sense. Cursed by a witch, made into an unwilling motivore, force-fed other people's feelings, having some kind of hypnotic effect on his brother, so massively glutted on Dean's affection he probably couldn't move anymore...it was there, just smoky and unreal in the back of his mind.

"Sorry." Dean's husky apology was unexpected. "Not doing it on purpose." Sam looked at him through his lashes, lids at half-mast. "But you're _huge_. I must really love you, huh?" He ran his hands appreciatively over the growing expanse of Sam's belly. "That's probably a good thing."

He trailed off into kisses and pets. Even that gentle pressure had Sam belching. After a little bit, Dean started talking again.

"Mm, yeah, Sammy, look at this." He gave Sam's stomach an admiring little jiggle. Sam cried out at his own jolt of pleasure, and a sudden infusion of horniness from Dean that pressed his belly even harder into his hands. "I'm feeding you so good."

"Uh huh," Sam agreed breathlessly. What else was he supposed to say? It was true.

Dean brought a hand to Sam's navel, stretched flat and sensitive, and played with it for a second before tracing the trail of sparse, dark hair that led down from it. A second later, he was feeling out the bulge in his boxer briefs. Sam moaned. He jerked when Dean suddenly began to rut against his cock with his own hardness, straddling Sam's thighs, layers of denim and cotton between them, holding onto Sam's gut for balance. Which swelled even fuller as more lust rushed down his gullet.

"Bet I could get your tummy even bigger, little brother," Dean whispered. Something in Sam that'd been growing bigger by the minute was not only eager for more, but desperate.

Dean got off him. Apparently Sam still could move, sort of, because Dean helped him roll over, then go up on his hands and knees. It took about ten minutes and pulled a lot of noises out of the bed. Sam was sweating hard by the end of it, sucking wind. The weight of his stomach pulled his lower back into a painful arch. Love was heavy. He wouldn't have expected anything different, at this stage in his life.

Dean pulled Sam's jeans and underwear down, exposing his ass and letting his cock flop free. It rested against the steep curve of his belly. He could feel his hole already twitching, impatient to be filled.

"You looking a little cushier back here already?" Dean rumbled. He tweaked one of Sam's cheeks. "Probably just my imagination."

He left for a second, and something tiny nagged at Sam. Could he gain weight off this? If the answer was yes, then it was probably going to be a lot, given how absurdly overfed he was right now. The worry was washed away in a fresh wave of pleasure, though, when Dean returned with lube and started prepping him.

It drooled sloppy out of Sam's entrance, and he ground himself back on Dean's thick fingers with a whine, wincing when his sensitive stomach struck his own thighs. If Dean could tell he'd had anal sex before now, he didn't say anything.

Sam noticed when he entered him he wasn't wearing a condom. He was too happy and too needy to worry about disease and messes just then, though.

He had no way of knowing how long he or Dean would last, but Sam was a little concerned about staying on all fours the whole time, given the weight of his engorged middle. It turned out not to be a problem. After only a few thrusts from Dean, his belly was resting neatly on the mattress. It felt like his navel had inverted, too, but it was hard to tell with it pressing into the worn fabric.

Sam's stomach was straining, but also felt elastic. He wasn't worried about rupturing something now. He just wanted _more_.

Dean fucked him hard, standing behind him. His cock drove deep into Sam, powerful, punching his prostate with a bruising force on every single thrust. It was enough to practically shake Sam into a puddle. Dean rocked him back and forth on top of his gut, what filled him sloshing violently, so of course he couldn't stop himself from burping in between his moans and shouts of pleasure. The bed echoed him, trembling and creaking.

Dean fed him the entire time, too. Solid love, sweet lust, piping hot pleasure. Sam's belly pressed harder and harder into the mattress, lifted him up so his back wasn't bowed anymore and only about three-quarters of his weight was on his hands and knees, and started to spread to either side once there was nowhere else for it to go. Sam felt absolutely massive, obscenely bloated with Dean holding tight to his hips and pistoning in and out of him. He couldn't help it. He wasn't sure either of them could, at this point.

"T-tight," Dean panted. Sam was flexing involuntarily around his considerable girth, imagining he could feel very vein on him. "So good." He stroked Sam's swollen flank, and there was a fresh spurt of affection. Sam shuddered bigger. "So good for me, baby boy." His thrusts got a little weaker so he could lean forward and kiss the tail ends of Sam's shoulder blades. "Gonna take care of you."

It wasn't too long after that that Dean came, and his orgasm was like Sam'd put his mouth over a broken fire hydrant. The flavor of it was raw, animal, electric, overwhelming - and it filled Sam faster than anything else had. It pumped him up to an absolutely ridiculous size, belly so big he couldn't reach the mattress with his hands anymore and had to rock back into a kneeling position. It forced his thighs wide apart and he clenched around Dean, pumping hot seed into his channel. The underside of Sam's ponderous stomach rested on a bed that seemed to be getting more rickety and precarious with every second that passed.

Sam's belly was gargantuan, gurgling contentedly and filled to the brim with the solar flare off Dean's soul. He could put his arms around it, but his fingertips only barely touched.

His own climax sort of got lost in all that. He knew it'd happened, that it'd been fantastic. He could feel his come running down his stomach and dripping on the comforter. It was just that it'd been a small part of a very large whole.

Dean, limp, pulled out. He collapsed onto the bed beside Sam with a groan, and that was it: the bed's wobbly legs tilted, falling over sideways and sending the box to the floor with a thunderous crash. Dean's surprise at that, which faded quick and tasted like milder shock, was the only reason Sam noticed it. That, and the tsunami it set off in him. He jiggled.

Sam feasted on Dean's afterglow, like high-end whiskey, Irish cream. The skin of his belly was shiny, going taut, but no redness he could see. He put his arms around it again, curious, and couldn't make his fingers meet this time.

Sam was satisfied in every single way, floating on a cushion of sleepy happiness. He wanted to nestle into his own softness and drift off. It felt like he should be purring.

Dean finally came down enough to notice the size Sam'd reached. Something unpleasant flickered split-second across Sam's palate, but then the good feelings drowned it out again.

"Son of a _bitch_." Sounding awed, Dean poked Sam's belly. His finger sank deep and Sam grunted, before puffing out a very tiny burp. It felt like the last of the air inside him. "I took _real _good care of you, didn't I? Just look at this monster. Broke the damn bed."

There was a pause, during which Dean rubbed as much of Sam's belly as he could reach without getting up. Sam's eyes floated closed, and he smiled wide and content.

"Probably oughta try and break this curse before you turn into a serious butterball," Dean murmured.

Sam couldn't worry about that right now. At the moment, he wasn't sure he could even talk. He definitely couldn't move. So he hiccuped, and sighed happily.

The witch had probably assumed he'd starve to death, stomach filled with razor blades and poison. Or choke on a froth of hate and pain, like she'd told him to as she cursed him. She hadn't known about Dean. So she couldn't possibly have predicted Sam stuffing himself to the gills on his brother's bottomless well of love.

Given how Dean felt about him, if emotions counted as calories his body could actually use and store, Sam imagined he'd fatten up pretty quick. They'd probably have to remove a wall to get him out of the room before the end of the week.

With devotion pooling warm on his tongue, that didn't sound so bad to him.


End file.
